The Blue Mask
by Rednih
Summary: It's almost too easy. Continuation of 'Aren't You Glad,' starring a female Batman and including Graphic Depictions of Violence and Implied or Off-Stage Rape/Non-Con. Rachel Dawes/Harvey Dent and a subtle secret pre-pairing.
1. Chapter 1

'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.

Title taken from the Lou Reed song of the same name.

There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included the warning just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger anyone.

* * *

After the crisis ends and the reconstruction is well underway, it's still just as much a matter of overpowering them as it is outthinking them, some refusing to believe the reputation. The media, however, seems to have reached the general consensus that the Batman is a brute but perhaps a necessary one, a ruthless man on a fairly commendable quest to singlehandedly clean up the city. That's what makes the news, after all, only a select few individuals aware there's more to the story. Months go by, and offenders are charged, convicted, and sentenced based on genuine evidence, proof—all of which is eventually logged and processed correctly. Leads an undermanned police force doesn't have the resources to follow up on are accurately authenticated or definitively proved false. Detailed reports are filed through the Major Crimes Unit that in truth no detective stationed there actually writes.

By the sixth month, crime rates in Gotham are the lowest they've been in decades.

Brooke opens her eyes, blinks rapidly. She'd meant to go over the initial crime scene photos of the latest heist uptown. There's a mug of coffee nearby, which she grabs and gulps down—only to realize after the fact that it's ice-cold. Still, it's better than nothing. Replacing the empty mug, she cracks her neck loose and quickly cracks Gordon's hard drive at the MCU, skimming through the new open cases and copying the files of the few the unit managed to close hours earlier. A glance at the clock then shows it's time to shift gears, and she gets up.

The sun sets 23 minutes later, and Batman arrives only a few minutes late for a very important meeting. Alas, the men in charge flee like rabbits as soon as she shows up, their black SUVs screeching away into the night despite her best efforts. She manages to throw a GPS onto the back bumper of Crane's vehicle but then has to turn around because several of the pair's underlings have evidently decided to stay and try their hand at the Batman.

The new taser she's adapted works beautifully in a pinch when paired with a pendulum step back and a quick reverse hook forward. That takes care of two of the Chechen's men and scares off a third. A cut down to a fourth leaves her in good position for when yet another goon comes charging in, this time one of Crane's by the strung-out look of him. He's running up, swinging a haymaker at her and laughing his tweaked head off—and this is her favorite, them coming right to her. She blocks the swing with her left arm by slamming it into the guy's elbow, destroying his momentum and clearly startling him. Then, extending her arm, she's able to chop him in the throat with her hand, punch him in the groin with her other hand, and when he bends over, gasping, struggling for breath, keening with the pain—she grabs him by the back of his exposed neck and pushes him down into the ground, grabbing his arm again as he falls and whipping him around face-up at the last second. Then, Batman promptly stomps on the guy's free hand, crushing his grip on the knife he'd somehow managed to pull out and had no doubt been hoping to stab somewhere—calf, back of the knee, foot, if he were feeling especially stupid. A swift boot to the head knocks him out for the count.

But, two other guys, two more takedowns, and these attacks must have been inspired by her treatment of their buddy to some extent because now it's sloppy, useless kicks that never get above her shin and demonstrate no technique whatsoever. It's more wild fists swinging in her direction too, moves that a few simple pull backs at the waist or well-timed ducks under their arms allow her to avoid. She stop kicks them in turn, locks one's wrist and twists, and this guy doesn't give up, instead just howls and pulls, jerks harder at the hold—and she wrenches, breaking all eight of the bones in his wrist. Then, kneeing him under the chin and sending him sprawling back, she turns to the final guy.

Smartest one of the bunch, he's already backpedaling. He stumbles, falls on his ass and, as she just stares at him, proceeds to try and crabwalk away.

It's almost too easy. . .

The Chechen's out of reach, likely gone to ground for the next week, but Crane's vehicle shows up on the GPS map as a steady red dot making a beeline for Oldtown and the Narrows—shocker. She phones in an anonymous tip, reporting shots fired at the parking garage on Ash and Davis. Surely some of these men must have outstanding warrants, and she'd wager all of them are carrying something.

Once she's in the Tumbler and going after Crane, the direct line she's set up for Gordon beeps, one high-pitched tone sounding instead of either the two tones of Lucius or the single low-pitch of Alfred. Another beep follows the first, signaling that the line's still active, and she pushes the button on the belt.

"Yes?" she asks, steering quickly around a semi and then pressing down harder on the gas.

"Just finishing up here if you wanted to swing by," Gordon says. He sounds tired—and oddly amused. Gallows humor.

She waits a moment, hooking a left and then speeding across the east bridge on Fifth. The traffic's always lighter here, and she's pulling into an alley and turning off the Tumbler within half a minute. Outside, she seizes the grapple gun and sets up the shot for the west side of the closest building before shooting the cable.

Once the line is established and secure, she carefully remarks, "Heard it come over the radio earlier."

Gordon automatically fills in the blanks then, while she hooks up and engages the retraction mechanism. She's towed up to the ledge of the building, at which point she grabs on and flips the rest of the way over, all while Gordon runs through the scene, confirming it's the address from this afternoon as well as the same M.O.—another bank, another group of dead ex-cons, and yet more mocking footage of the goddamned clown.

"Stick around?" Gordon finishes with.

"Be there presently," she quips in return, cutting off the call to the sound of Gordon's huffing chuckle.

Two blocks down, Crane's SUV is parked behind an old movie theater. There's even a convenient second-storey office with nice, wide windows, the glass gone and everything.

Only three little helpers here at the moment, and inside ten minutes of arriving she has Crane by the throat under the Exit sign in the third cinema.

"Going somewhere?" she asks, snapping the restraints and readying the taser—just in case.

Crane smiles serenely and tilts his head, no doubt looking to pick her apart, thinking up some taunt intended to distract her while he scurries away.

"I imagine a girl like yoursel– " he starts to say, before his teeth snap shut and his body goes rigid.

She counts to ten and then powers down the taser, holding it up and shaking it at him when he's coherent enough once more to glare at her.

They come to an agreement free of all pretenses, and the drive back uptown is pleasantly, calmingly silent. She's almost wistful when handing him off to a couple of Gordon's uniforms at the MCU.

Then she darts over to the bank, where she and Gordon manage perhaps three minutes before Ramirez comes wandering into the vault with a sneer and a jab at procedural inconsistencies and evidence tampering, managing to somehow say the words in a tone completely absent any irony whatsoever. Batman then pointedly stares at Ramirez for the next few seconds, during which time the detective shuffles her feet and looks nervous, and even Gordon clears his throat. The hypocrisy of the situation is more than enough incentive to leave, and she makes eye contact with Gordon before backing back out of the vault, Ramirez muttering a disingenuous, "Jeez, sorry," under her breath.

Brooke pictures Gordon shaking his head and turning back to the abandoned stack of irradiated bills. They've got their work cut out for them with this one, if only the buffoons on the force would stay out of the way.

Despite being a good idea in theory, in practice, Gordon's special police division is a mess, mainly because for every decent, clean cop—there are 20 on the take. The other complication stems from the novelty of the MCU and the obligatory restrictions and regulations placed on it and its funding, which in turn translates into counterproductive bureaucracy and red tape and outsider, supposedly objective, administration—meaning everyone in the city, decent and corrupt, has an eye on operations, on the detectives and officers, on the techs and unit investigators, and especially on Gordon.

It makes meeting up with the man that much more difficult. All eyes are on him, and the last thing he needs is to be taken down because of any perceived connection to the vigilante known as 'Batman.'

The timing has to be perfect. He can only linger so long at a crime scene without attracting too much attention, but Batman isn't always free of a night to stop by and chat whenever it's convenient. Daylight is pretty much out of the question, and only once had Gordon suggested she come in sans mask. He backed off it immediately and never mentioned it again, but still she almost smiles at the image of Brooke Wayne strutting into the MCU for an impromptu meeting with Gordon. Less inconspicuous, he thinks? Right.

If only he knew.

* * *

Batman isn't complicated, not to understand and not to be. It's when she's not the Bat that life is continuously trying to suck her in and chew her up, all the little games and charades, the affectations and forced bubbliness. She imagines she'll be able to get away with solemn once, maybe twice a year, but reserved and taciturn, her natural state—no. It's more exhausting acting as Brooke Wayne than it is being Batman.

And Alfred is merciless.

She doesn't have enough friends, he says.

"Women are not like men," he helpfully points out that morning upon his arrival at the bunker.

"Really?" she responds, and it's not as sarcastic as she'd intended, but then her concentration is divided. Makeup is a major endeavor each day when it's one of the few things able to lend any sort of credence to her supposed wantonness and increasing moral degradation. The red has to be just the right hue in just the right value to accurately read as bruising, hints and tiny amounts of yellow, green, blue, and purple adding to the overall realism. The bite marks have to be spaced properly, the fingerprint bruising applied sparingly. She puts on what is expected and hides whatever isn't. It's surprisingly labor-intensive, some days taking up to two hours to complete—and that's not including the beauty stuff, the foundation and concealer and eye makeup. That's not including the hair, either.

She's bent over the desk with the lamp pointing just slightly away from her forearm, so as not to melt any of the applications with the direct heat, when Alfred comes up and looks over her shoulder.

"It's perceived as far stranger for a woman to be alone than it is for a man." Then, a beat later, "Werewolves this week?" he asks, the displeasure in full force and no trace of humor at all despite the nature of the comment.

"No worse than the actual train wreck on my side," she replies without thinking, instantly regretting bringing it up when Alfred walks away. "Did you bring—pancakes?" she then asks, going off the smell of maple syrup she's picked up on. She pauses, inhaling again. "Bacon too?"

"Maple bacon donuts," he says quietly, and judging by the acoustics he's standing in front of the computer screens, and her guess is it's the third one down that's grabbed his attention. That would certainly explain the tone of his voice, as she currently has the footage she'd retrieved earlier from the camera at the court house playing on a loop.

"Love those things," she remarks, sniffing the air again and smiling. The third cut, the one that looks the deepest, needs to have a slightly more jagged edge in order to be truly convincing, but that's just a matter of judiciously adding darker color. "What's the occasion?" Brooke then asks, trying to shift the focus of this conversation before Alfred can really start in.

"New photos in the tabloids," he says, and his voice is still distracted. "Headlines point out how thin you're becoming."

"Mmm," she responds, huffing a little at the end to show exactly what the tabloid writers' opinions are worth. She puts the finishing touches on the last of the fake cuts and then spins the stool around to look at Alfred. "See anything interesting?" Brooke asks, only it comes out as more of a demand.

Whoops.

Alfred finally turns, meeting her eyes with that hangdog expression. But, he doesn't say anything, instead pointedly looking over at the small box of donuts he's placed on the desk.

Brooke smiles again, turning back around and picking up the blow-dryer. She's already late and still needs to dry the makeup before she can get dressed. Besides, donuts keep for a surprisingly long time.

* * *

She keeps a digital eye on everyone important—crime families, city officials, known felons and do-gooders. It's necessary for both their protection and hers. Certain individuals, though, do merit a more intense study than others.

She can predict Alfred's actions often down to the second, Lucius' schedule likewise stored and updated daily. Gordon had agreed to carry the modified cell phone around, knowing full well it contains a GPS chip. She receives notifications on all three of them regularly, notifications that each explicitly agreed to.

The problem is she's also tracking people that closely who haven't and wouldn't agree to it, Rachel, Leslie Thompkins—Harvey Dent. They can't know the true state of affairs, but they're all high risk, outspoken troublemakers.

So, she spies on them. It's not fun or even particularly pleasant, but it's necessary, and it's not as though she'd ever use anything she witnesses against them. Of course, it's not like she would ever even have the opportunity to do so, seeing as she has little to no contact with all of them.

Unfortunately, that all changes one night when Brooke Wayne and Natascha Tsyganova make their dinner reservation at eight, only to walk right past a table where–

"Rachel! Hi!" Brooke exclaims, extending a hand and setting it on Natascha's shoulder to keep her from continuing on to their table. Natascha accordingly glances over her shoulder with a smirk and then turns around fully, coming to stand right at Brooke's side.

"Brooke. . . " Rachel says in response, and Brooke doubts it escapes anyone's notice how decidedly lukewarm a reception that is.

"Fancy bumping into you here," Brooke cheerfully goes on, looking from Rachel to Harvey seated across from her, "you and, uh, Harry, isn't it?"

Rachel sighs, but Harvey cracks a small smile, eyes flicking down to his plate before coming back up and locking on Brooke.

"It's Harvey, actually, Ms. Wayne," he says, pushing his chair back and suddenly standing up and holding out his hand.

Brooke glances around, registers the attention they're attracting, Rachel's discomfort, and Natascha's curiosity, and decides a course of action that would likely earn her a stern look from Alfred.

She sticks out her hand and limply shakes Harvey's and then proceeds to loudly suggest, "Hey, why don't we pull a couple tables together and make this a party of four, huh?"

Harvey releases her hand and frowns, looking to Rachel with his eyebrows raised. Rachel, however, is staring at Brooke with that shrewd expression that doesn't exactly bode well.

"Sure," she agrees after a moment, pasting on a fake smile but not even bothering to hide the caginess in her voice. "I mean, it's no great inconvenience, right, Brooke?"

Brooke gamely grins back before turning and lifting a hand, signaling at their befuddled waiter, still lingering about ten feet ahead of them, to come closer.

" 'Course not," Brooke Wayne chirps, as the young guy carefully steps around Natascha, "not when you own the place!"

* * *

She's done her research and actively tries to steer the conversation away from certain topics, and yet still she manages to find herself a halfhearted participant in a verbal analysis of the effects of the Batman's presence on Gotham City.

This is somehow her life now.

What surprises Brooke isn't truly the stance Natascha takes and definitely not the utter garbage that periodically comes spilling out of her own mouth, but rather it's what Rachel says—and even more what Harvey seems to believe.

'_I believe in Harvey Dent_.'

Harvey, it turns out, is a staunch supporter of the vigilante; Rachel is most definitely not.

"Obviously," Rachel says at one point in the conversation, "there's some kind of history in play here, a grudge of some sort."

Natascha nods rapidly in agreement, and Brooke smiles. Right again, Rachel.

"What makes you say that?" Harvey asks.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Rachel responds, and she's clearly fully into the argument, shifting forward on her chair and putting one arm on the table while her other gestures and waves as she speaks. "What drives a person to take this kind of action, knowing full well what's waiting if they're caught?"

"'If,'" Natascha repeats carefully, and like most people when dealing with a somewhat unfamiliar accent, the three of them instantly turn to watch her speak, "or 'when'? I should think it unavoidable this person is—arrested. Surely, your police force is competent enough for that."

Neither Rachel nor Harvey says a word, but the look they exchange speaks volumes. Brooke feels a rush of anger sweep over her then at this proof that she's not the only one who feels this way. Everyone in Gotham knows the degree to which the city is crumbling, Rachel herself the one who, almost eight years ago now, had literally slapped Brooke in the face with it, and yet no one does anything—not one single thing except criticize her.

She must slip in those few seconds. Her face must show something of her thoughts because suddenly Rachel is looking at her and Harvey, as well, and they aren't the kind of looks Brooke Wayne needs directed at her.

She smiles, grins, teeth white and shiny and on full display a moment later when Natascha has followed the others' line of sight and is looking at Brooke with a mildly expectant expression on her oh-so-lovely face. There's a history of pain and struggle behind that perfect body and a sharp mind hidden away inside that gorgeous head, but right now all Brooke sees is the disappointment aimed at her, the polite and bemused tolerance, the forbearance as Natascha reaches out and places a hand on Brooke's arm.

The condescension is palpable as she smiles and remarks, "This is boring you to tears, is it not?" Then, she pats the arm she's touching before deliberately sliding her hand back around Brooke's shoulder.

Ah, and what a pity it is, too, because ten minutes ago Brooke would have most assuredly been game. Natascha's a catch and normally the opposite of a hardship to entertain all night. Now, though, Brooke's face hurts, and her mood has turned sour, and despite being the only one truly to blame here—she can't stand the sight, let alone the soft caresses, of someone who, sitting right next to her, just minutes ago referred to her as a delusional adolescent and a lunatic and, her personal favorite, the embodiment of Americans' obsession with violence and melodrama. The last Brooke finds particularly rich coming from a Russian ballet dancer.

"You have no idea," Brooke says unashamedly, ratcheting the grin up a bit more and rolling her eyes for good measure. She turns and looks at Rachel then, shrugging coyly directly in the face of all that mature censure. "People to do, things to see—you know how it goes, right, Rach?"

A tight smile, a nod, and a poorly concealed expression of relief is Rachel's response. Maybe Brooke should be offended and hurt right now, but that reaction's pretty much exactly what she's been working for. Still.

People tend to give up easily.

Brooke meets Harvey's eyes, as she stands up and holds out a hand for Natascha to do the same.

_I've heard good things about you._

_I can tell you're not the typical politician._

_You can do great things for this city, too, you know._

_I know that look on your face, Harvey, and—be careful you don't fall down that rabbit hole._

_You're a good man, but I could really use your help. . . _

What she actually says is, "You know, you really should get out more, Harvey, hon. I'd bet there are a bunch of folks in this town who'd love to meet someone so—believable. Oh, you know what this calls for? A party!" Brooke exclaims, putting her arm around Natascha's waist.

Rachel is biting her lip, her eyebrows almost at her hairline, but that's a genuine smile on her face, even if it is at Brooke's expense. Harvey, on the other hand, is just staring at her, the confusion slowly being replaced with anxiety.

"Now, Brooke," he starts tentatively, glancing futilely at Rachel for help that's definitely not coming, "that's very kind of you to offer, but I'm afraid I'm not really– "

"Nonsense!" she interrupts. "It will be fun. I promise," she adds a second later after Harvey unintentionally makes a face that is the epitome of skepticism. "Rachel," Brooke whines, turning and pouting, "you know what I'm talking about. My friends, Harv," she says, waving her free hand exaggeratedly at the four of them present, "should know my other friends. Then we can all be friends!"

"Jesus," he whispers, causing Rachel to snort and Natascha to chuckle.

"Just you wait," Brooke says as the nail in the coffin, "because _I_ know how to throw a party! That's a guarantee."


	2. Chapter 2

'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.

Title taken from the Lou Reed song of the same name.

There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included the warning just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger anyone.

* * *

Minutes before the big coordinated takedown of the mob's banks, she guides the MV Agusta to a stop at the curb outside St. Swithen's and turns it off. Then, digging out her phone and checking it, Brooke grits her teeth when there's no message from Gordon. There wouldn't be of course, not yet, but she can't help the impatience and anxiety. If this works. . .

A sudden whoop and admiring whistle snap her back to attention, and she turns her head to see three teenage boys slouching around the front doors of the orphanage, the expressions on their faces bringing a smile to her own. That's pure lust, and it's not for her.

Brooke slips her phone back into her jacket as she gets up and swings her left leg off the bike. Leaving a proprietary hand on it as she poses, she then mock-presents it for the boys' inspection. One of the three smiles and looks down at his feet, but the other two immediately dart over and start drooling over it.

"This is so fucking cool!" one boy whispers, his hands hovering over the front tire like he's attempting to somehow absorb the bike into himself. His swearing causes the other boy to jab him in the stomach with an elbow and quickly jerk his head in Brooke's direction.

"Jeez, man," the second boy cautions, and Brooke snorts inside her helmet.

"Don't worry on my account," she assures them, taking pleasure in their wide-eyed reactions as she pulls off the helmet and puts it on the bike before moving away. "Think you can watch this for me?" she then casually asks with a wave at the Agusta, walking up to the front doors without even waiting for a response.

"Holy shit!" she hears the first boy exclaim.

As she passes the third boy still hanging back, she bumps him in the arm, and he looks up.

"Men," she says, and the kid smirks and grabs the door, holding it open for her.

* * *

After a practiced, cursory tour of the public rooms, she sits and listens to Father Reilly talk about the orphanage, the good it does the boys, the community, and she resists the urge to check every ten seconds to see if Gordon's done it yet, if _they've_ done it. The banks are a steppingstone but an important one, and taking away the mob's money is drastically limiting their options. The fight will be half over already if they succeed today.

Brooke almost crosses her fingers for good luck.

But, while she's waiting, she's listening, and Reilly eventually starts to slip. His lofty spiel is inevitably sliding back down to reality, and little kernels of unvarnished truth are slowly creeping back in. He mentions the age limit just in passing, but his facial expression gives him away, the worry and resentment there showing it's a bigger issue than he'd like her to think. There's the state of the building itself, which is pretty good in the sections she's seen but likely worse in those she hasn't, and overall this place would be considered a palace in many areas of the world, but in this part of Gotham it's on the low end of the scale. Then, there's the matter of the services and level of care provided to the boys themselves, and that will almost never be enough.

Reilly ultimately leans back in his chair and all but drops the act. He goes from happy but tired to exhausted and desperate in the span of five seconds, and Brooke can't say she didn't see it coming.

"The truth is, Ms. Wayne, this place is running and will continue to run, but that's about it."

She nods and scratches an itch at her jaw, looking up and meeting Reilly's eyes head-on. "So, you're saying. . . ?"

He sighs and frowns like a good man before he asks for more money, even couches it as a polite 'request for greater resources' for his own sake more than hers. And he is indeed tired and desperate, but he's also still here, sacrificing any ambition or pride he has for himself in favor of—keeping this place going.

"Sure," she says bluntly, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence, smiling at him a little to somewhat lessen the abruptness. "You'll have a check by the end of the day, and someone from the Foundation will no doubt be in touch."

Father Reilly doesn't stare at her with an open mouth or stammer incredulously, but he's clearly happy and grateful all the same. He gets up from his chair and walks around, and she stands up to meet him.

"Well," he says, grinning, "what say I give you the real tour?"

Brooke smirks and nods her head and gestures for him to lead the way. They head back out into the long hallway and turn right instead of left, coming to a stop at the doorway of what is obviously some sort of game room. Several younger boys are sitting around on threadbare couches and chairs watching the ancient TV, while two slightly older ones, maybe junior high-age, are halfheartedly playing table hockey on the other side of the room. Reilly lifts his hand and waves at someone near him, someone Brooke can't see because he's small enough to be blocked by Reilly himself. But, when the priest walks into the room, she follows and smiles when the stranger in question is revealed to be the same kid from before, the one who held the door for her.

He's clearly the oldest boy in the room, and he's holding a book in his hand. Reilly has an arm around his shoulders, showing he likes this kid, which says everything right there.

"You the babysitter?" she asks him, lightly, and he smirks again and nods. "Think my ride will still be out there when I'm done?"

Reilly looks a little confused and starts showing perhaps the early stages of worry, but the kid just goes right on smirking at Brooke.

"It'll be there," he finally answers, and his voice is deeper than she'd expected from such a short, skinny kid.

Brooke shrugs in response and puts on a grin, and she and Reilly talk a little about the room and what it represents, what it needs in terms of improvement or additions. She keeps sneaking glances at the kid, catching tiny glimpses of something in him she feels she should recognize.

It's not until afterward that she gets it, after her impatience gets the better of her back in the hallway and she checks her phone for messages and reads what Gordon has sent Batman—the bad news, the stupid, predictable outcome she should have foreseen that of course something went wrong and of course they got away with their money because everyone in this city is dirtier than a sewer. It's when she's standing in the hallway, some pat excuse tossed at Reilly about a business deal turned sour and so enraged that she's visibly shaking, and looks up to see that kid staring at her that she finally gets it.

He's an older kid, probably not far from being aged out of this place, and Brooke wonders if this has become his home or is just a good place he's living. It makes no real difference either way because he'll be leaving it behind regardless, but she's curious. She's giving Reilly more money for the orphanage, and the place will get fixed up, the boys living here receiving more attention, things like therapy and better health care and school supplies, improved diet and activities—and this kid, this skinny teenager whose mask still sometimes slips will hardly see any of it. She wonders if he feels bitter that she hadn't come sooner.

Maybe he won't turn out bad. Maybe he'll find something good to fight for, some purpose, a reason that will help make sense of everything crazy in his life, a way to be normal. Maybe. Maybe he's not really like her at all, and she's just projecting because she's pissed off.

Brooke pastes a bright grin on her face for the kid's benefit and turns and walks away.

* * *

Batman drops onto the MCU rooftop expecting Gordon and instead comes face-to-face with Harvey Dent, hands on his hips, tie askew, glower twisting his mouth and narrowing his eyes.

Gordon isn't too far behind, though. Only a moment later, he comes barreling out of the stairwell and angrily shuts down the spotlight. Then, he and Dent are facing off, and suddenly it turns into a twisted version of parents fighting in front of their kid. They both seem to forget she's even there, as they shout and wave their arms at each other, this being just another reason why nothing is ever accomplished in this city.

She questions her motivation in speaking up, fleeting concerns mounting and promptly vanishing about trusting Harvey with the knowledge, and what will no doubt be a quick realization on his part, that Batman's a woman. But, in the end, it's simply the fact that she has better things to do than stand witness as the city's two best men verbally duke it out, playing their own brand of the Blame Game and metaphorically waving their dicks around to see whose is bigger.

Well, Brooke doesn't have a dick, but she's got balls, and this is fucking ridiculous.

"You two about finished?" Batman snaps, just as Dent's starting in on the state of Gordon's detective force downstairs and the fact that, yes, all of them, every single one, has at one time or another been investigated by IA—and most of them by Dent himself.

They both turn to look at her, somehow absurdly startled that she's still there, Gordon likely embarrassed to be caught yelling at someone younger and arguably higher up on the food chain than he is, and Dent suddenly very interested in studying Batman's face and chest.

_Yeah, fuck you too, Harvey_, Brooke thinks a second later when he makes a face, sighs, and closes his eyes. He rallies, and it's probably just the shock of it, but. . .

But.

Now they're all angry and disappointed, and at least Harvey gets to the point right quick.

"How soon can you get to Hong Kong?" he asks urgently, and it's just a step below a demand.

She glances at Gordon and then responds, "If I get him to you, can you charge him?"

Hands on hips and that determined look on his face, Harvey retorts, "You get him here, and I'll make him sing!"

Brooke smiles on the inside, Batman giving Dent a curt nod. Gordon just purses his lips and looks at her with worried, frustrated eyes.

Back to Hong Kong—it's been a few years since she was there.

* * *

Harvey's as good as his word, and after she delivers him express overnight, Lau's under Gordon's lock and key at the MCU and singing to Rachel about his friends louder than an opera diva. Meanwhile, the GCPD rounds up the filth, every crook from the likes of the Chechen and Maroni, all the way down to the runners and small-timers, the petty thieves. There's almost an entire day where they're back on track, where Brooke wakes up and knows this is it, the end, the cure, the way out.

And then it falls apart again

She has Harvey's party that night, so the penthouse is overrun with decorators and caterers, and still that isn't anything too intense. She dislikes the invasion, but it's an acceptable price to pay in order to help Harvey and by extension the city.

It's as she's finishing getting ready, struggling futilely with a bracelet she can't quite clasp, that something comes on the TV that changes everything. There's a shot of a body dressed as—Batman being pulled down, a noose around its neck and makeup, clown makeup, on its face. Brooke feels the bracelet slip from her hand as she walks over to the television in the corner of the room.

"This is Mike Engels here with a special news bulletin. We have just received footage of a threat made to the Batman. Warning: what you are about to see is disturbing."

Alfred is already over there turning up the volume, and some workers around stop and watch as the video rolls onscreen. It must be tape the news station only just received minutes ago if it's not even censored or edited yet, and it is most definitely _disturbing_.

Her copycats are a nuisance, often a hindrance and largely ineffective, but shown tied to the chair and humiliated and terrorized is a man who had good intentions and tried to fight back, and now he's dead, hanged, his corpse put on sick display—and Brooke feels Alfred looking, turns and registers some mixture of anger and concern on his face, but it's nothing compared to what's already boiling inside her.

Batman's being called out by a murderer, and here she is preparing to host a party.

One of the caterers' assistants then tentatively comes over and holds out her bracelet, and Brooke stares at it before carefully taking it, latching it around her wrist on the first try, and walking away.

Her anger still outweighs her guilt but not by much.

* * *

She remains back in her study for hours, sifting through information about the tape itself, the coroner's report on Brian Douglas' body, the police report from Gordon's investigation, and messages from Gordon himself to Batman. The sounds of people arriving, talking, and generally making merry gradually picks up, but she stays locked inside.

There's eventually a knock on the door, but she doesn't answer. And that's all it is—just a knock. That's all that's needed, though, just Alfred asking her, requesting her to come out. That's all it's ever been. He knocks, and she responds in one way or another.

Brooke Wayne shows up to the party about three hours late, just appears like magic, grinning and laughing, champagne glass in hand as she shamelessly flirts with everyone.

She circles Harvey, who's surprisingly holed up at one side of the room by himself, and steers clear of both Rachel and Alfred. When the moment comes, she grabs one of the tiny serving spoons from the stuffed mushrooms and taps it against a fresh glass of champagne.

"Good evening, everyone," she says, smiling. "Now, we're all here for an important reason, and tonight, for once, that's not me!" They laugh and grin, and Brooke ratchets up the smile, flashing her teeth like she's in a toothpaste commercial because she can feel it's not reaching her eyes anymore. "No, tonight, my friends, we're here to honor our own District Attorney, Harvey Dent."

She nods as they clap, as they look around and finally spot Harvey in his hiding spot. Brooke Wayne grins and tosses the mushroom spoon back on the cloth-covered table, and Harvey swallows the rest of his drink before clearly biting the bullet and moving towards the center of the room like a man on his way to his own execution. She studies him, sees the pressure bearing down on him—what's happened today, what's happened with Lau and the mob, the increased public spotlight he signed up for and now regrets, his relationship with Rachel under strain—and Brooke knows Harvey should've stuck to Internal Affairs.

It's too much for him, too much for any one person to maintain, but for Harvey Dent. . .

"When I first saw Harvey," she says, gesturing at him with her glass, "it was in those heinous TV commercials, the 'I Believe In Harvey Dent' slogan plastered across the screen." A few people chuckle, and Brooke smirks, looking at Harvey but avoiding his eyes. "Yes, very classy, Harvey, but—you know, it caught Rachel's attention. Rachel– where is Rachel?"

They turn their heads and find Rachel in the crowd as she steps between them all and makes her way to Harvey's side. He looks relieved to see her, but Rachel's poker face is far better, and she simply walks up and takes his hand, smiling politely at him, at the room, but not really at Brooke. When she looks at Brooke, the message is distinctly different.

Brooke's not quite sure what it is—just that it's different.

"Rachel is my oldest friend," Brooke says, "and so I took a closer look at this man," and she again gestures at Harvey before finally looking at him directly. "And you know what I discovered? I do believe in Harvey Dent. I believe in his integrity, his optimism, and his determination to make this city a better place." She lifts her glass in a visible toast and declares, "So, here's to Harvey Dent, a man we can trust!"

People cheer and drink, and Brooke smiles at Harvey and Rachel until she can gracefully make her escape out to the balcony.

When the door slides open, she's expecting Alfred, and so dumping the champagne over the edge doesn't seem strange at all, as he knows she hates to drink.

However, when Rachel remarks, "Well, that was somewhat unexpected," and comes to a stop leaning against the railing next to her, Brooke is briefly flustered. It must show on her face because Rachel's eyebrows shoot up, and she smiles. "Harvey thinks you were making fun of him," she confides.

And Brooke nods inanely, turning away like she's more interested in looking at the city than in talking about something as dull as Harvey's insecurities.

"I know better," Rachel then quietly says, and Brooke can't help but glance over at her.

It's stupid to hope, stupid, pathetic, sad, and dangerous, and now more than ever the risks are greater, the benefits practically nonexistent—but still Brooke swallows, and her palms sweat, the glass in her hand suddenly harder to hang on to, and she's abruptly aware of how low-cut this dress is and the strength and chill of the wind and the state of her hands, her knuckles covered in makeup in order to hide the bruising and swelling. . .

Then, Rachel turns to face the city too, saying with her eyes on the skyscrapers, "You left. For a long time, after I said those things to you, slapped you, and then you were gone—I knew it was because of me, and the worst part was I couldn't really regret it. I don't– I can't say I don't get why you—tried to do that, why you had that gun, Brooke," and here Rachel looks at her from the corner of her eyes, and Brooke looks back the same way, "but what you were doing, what you wanted—that would have. . . "

She looks about ready to cry. Her voice was thick and hoarse on the last part, and now she's turned her head completely, looking to her left in the opposite direction of Brooke.

"Rachel. . . " Brooke says, and she tries, but she doesn't know where to start.

"I don't know if it was petty or what," Rachel suddenly says, voice deliberately harsh but still wavering, and she's still looking away, "but I was furious with you and hurt, and when Alfred came by and asked. . . "

That's when Rachel finally looks at her again, big fat tears escaping her eyes and cutting through the makeup she's wearing.

And it all suddenly makes a lot more sense.

"You told him," Brooke finishes, and Rachel nods, still crying.

"And then you never came back," she says, in a whisper the wind almost steals. "I told you the truth to– to wake you up, snap you out of it, but you ran away, and I told Alfred—what you'd tried to do. I made a mess of it," she barely gets out, looking away once more, but not in anger. "I think I should have lied, taken you home. Nothing good came from– "

Guilt and grief and shame.

Brooke reaches out and grabs Rachel by the wrist, getting her attention and cutting her off.

"Thank you," she says, and Rachel's face just crumples, more tears falling as she sniffles. "No. No, I'm pretty sure you saved my life that day," Brooke tells her, which only makes her snort in disbelief. "Not right away, of course, but. . . "

And then they're left standing there together awkwardly because Rachel's just confessed and Brooke still can't break past her own issues to return the favor.

Eventually Rachel pulls her wrist free to reach up and wipe her eyes dry, pat at her face with a grimace as she feels the stickiness on her cheeks.

"God," she says, now embarrassed.

"Don't worry," Brooke offers, pushing away from the railing and turning to head back inside, "I'll go back in first—provide the distraction so you can get to the bathroom."

Rachel snorts again, eyes red but smiling right along with her mouth, and Brooke doesn't feel any lighter, but Rachel seems to, and that's definitely something.

* * *

She manages to check her phone again and is glad she does because Gordon's sent an emergency message. It's already ten minutes old, so Brooke has to rush. She snags Alfred and has him first lure Harvey away and then keep Rachel preoccupied so Brooke can try her best to sneak up on Harvey and put him somewhere safe for the time being. She gets him in a sleeper hold, the bracelet around her wrist flashing in the light and catching in his hair. Then, she drags him into the closet and bars it from the outside with a broom handle. Hopefully, the men searching for him won't be so thorough as to check the laundry room.

Soon, all hell breaks loose, as the Joker steps off the elevator with a handful of idiots wearing pantyhose or masks over their faces and one of the cops Gordon had sent—already beaten and knocked unconscious once they arrive. More are apparently stuck down in the lobby or the floors below, and the only ways to reach the penthouse are through the elevator and the stairwell, and the stairwell's locked and coded, and the elevator's obviously blocked.

So, it's time for backup. Brooke moves to the back of the room and then, once she's in the hallway, kicks off the heels and runs.

Rounding the corner, she comes up against one of the creeps in pantyhose aiming a shotgun at her.

"Hey, baby," he says with a leer, "come on over he– _aaugh_!"

She grabs the barrel and pushes the whole thing back into his face, and he falls like a sack of potatoes not likely to get up again anytime soon and definitely not without one hell of a headache. She disassembles the gun and drops the pieces on her way, only to walk into her bedroom and be greeted with the sight of the husband of one of the Board acting post-coital with a woman Brooke's never met—in Brooke's own bed.

"What's going on out there?" the schmuck asks, as he finishes tucking himself in and zips up his fly.

Brooke raises her eyebrows at the woman in passing but quickly focuses on coding in to the hidden room and sliding open the panel.

"Oh, thank God," the woman says, "you've got a panic room."

"Sorry," Brooke calls back over her shoulder, right before shutting the panel behind her.

Only room for one in here. She makes quick work of the armor once she's undressed, flinging the dress away and trying to efficiently yet gently unhook the jewelry. One earring, however, becomes tangled in her hair, and she winds up just ripping it free, causing pain both in her head, as a handful of hair comes with it, and her earlobe, which is now likely bleeding. After that, though, it's easy to put on the armor, and she barely wastes a second checking through the one-way glass to make sure the couple has left before she's rushing out, sliding shut the panel, and passing back down the hallway.

Silence is what lies ahead, the only sound in the entire room that _voice_, rising, falling, rising, and a pin drop in here would sound like a cymbal crash. She stalks around the other side, past the goons, taking a path through the kitchen crowded with terrified chefs and servers who back away like she's some kind of poisonous snake. Pushing through the kitchen door, she takes a deep breath.

" . . . see the _funny_ side. Now, I'm _always smiling_!" he proclaims, and it's overwhelming because she was certain she'd already been angry, watching these criminals just waltz into her apartment like they had every right, but seeing him standing there, grinning and laughing while holding a knife to Rachel, restraining her, lying, putting on a show, flirting, mocking—Brooke almost has trouble thinking for a moment.

Because of course no one has done anything but Rachel, and look what she gets for it.

Because they're all just standing there watching as this psychopath harasses someone, harasses _Rachel_.

Rachel jabs him in the stomach at that point, but there's not enough force behind it, like either she's not intimidated at all and it's not worth it or she's not thinking about it being effective because she _is_ intimidated, scared, cowed, and she's doing all she can not to show it. And that, that right there, is unacceptable because it's something Brooke's felt, something she constantly feels, and will, despite the rage at the very idea of it, likely feel until her dying breath. It's not a 'woman thing'; it's a victim thing.

And that Rachel might be feeling it now. . .

The clown hitches a laugh, doubling over a bit and stumbling back, and there are still threats positioned around the room, but all Brooke's focus is on the Joker as she shifts closer to him.

"You've got a little fight in you," he gushes, pulling himself up straight and snapping back into shape like a rubber band, like nothing can even really touch him. "I like that," he states, and that's when they both, Rachel and the fucking clown, catch Brooke moving up on them. That's when Rachel automatically backpedals away across the floor, tripping over the hem of her dress and nearly falling.

That's when Batman and the Joker are formally introduced, and it's another fist to the gut for him, only this one's a damn sight more forceful. He curls up over her arm at the impact, his breath and voice escaping in a wheeze and hoarse bark of laughter. She keeps him close, uses him as a shield against his flunkies as they come one, two, three, and she enjoys whipping the Joker into them, using his arms and shoulders as battering rams and once even attempting to get him to headbutt one of his buffoons.

"Knife!" Rachel suddenly calls out, a warning, a caution, but something else in her voice besides. It's likely there on her face, too, the full extent of what she's feeling and hoping for on full display in her eyes and mouth, but Brooke can't take the time to look. She misses it. She'll never know what it was.

He's limp at first, dead weight in her arms as she throws him around, still laughing in that high-pitched screech that hurts her ears, but after Rachel's shout he's like a fish, slipping from her grasp and sliding away. There's the glint from the knife in his hand before he's gone, the pressure on her arm from his other hand, but it isn't until seconds later when every asshole in a pantyhose mask is down on the ground that Brooke feels the throbbing pain in her side and chances a look down—and then a look back up when Rachel shrieks, and the sound of glass breaking echoes around the room, and the full force of the wind at this elevation comes pouring inside the penthouse.

He's blown the window out and by virtue of a gun to her head is now forcing Rachel to keep backing up, dangling her outside the building like a puppet.

Brooke shouts, "No!" and her voice is deep but not its usual for Batman and certainly not deep enough to pass as masculine. The Joker giggles, and Rachel yelps as a particularly strong gust of air pushes her to one side, causing her to frantically clutch at the Joker. The whites of her eyes are showing, her mouth open in a terrified 'O', and Brooke's just standing here, stuck in place like everyone else, as a man with a gun–

"Stop this," Batman orders.

"Make me," the Joker responds, and he laughs when he tosses off Rachel's hands and she falls.

Screaming, and the wind slows her down, but her arms are reaching, reaching, and when she gets a hold of that wrist again, she whips her glove to the cape's frame, and the current sings through it, the wings bursting out and acting as a parachute. Then she's grabbing Rachel by her shoulder, her waist, her thigh and curling around her to block her from landing with her feet. Brooke has armor, boots; Rachel's got one heel, the other lost.

She has a flash of Henri, blasted out of the burning temple and hurtling unconscious down the slope. She remembers gripping Rachel's hand as her eyes rolled back into her head and the Tumbler plunged through the waterfall.

"Rachel, hold on!" Brooke shouts, voice whipped away by the wind.

She lands on a taxi, Rachel landing on her. There's the space of maybe five seconds, and then people are shouting, screaming, and Brooke's hands are sweating inside the gloves, her face wet under the cowl, and it takes everything in her in that moment to turn her head and look at Rachel.

And Rachel's staring at her with her mouth open, hair in her face, hands still clenched around Brooke's arms, and it's one of the most thrilling and terrifying moments of her life.


End file.
